


Wintry and Warm

by inthisdive



Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Ann M. Martin
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthisdive/pseuds/inthisdive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It had been a natural time for the girls to re-connect; when your friends party a little too hard when it’s time for the standardized testing that determines your entire life, you seek out those you know with similar principles”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wintry and Warm

_i. sat_

Stacey is bisexual, and Shannon knows this because Stacey told her during an impassioned IM session when they were both studying for the SATs. It had been a natural time for the girls to re-connect; when your friends party a little too hard when it’s time for the standardized testing that determines your _entire life_ , you seek out those you know with similar principles, similar approaches to studying; Stacey and Shannon have been meeting thrice weekly at the local library for the last three months. They have a study schedule. 

It hasn’t been awkward, not since the first phone call when Stacey introduced herself all over again, said _I know we’re out of touch but you know how to study, and I really need that_ , and Shannon had said yes without a thought, because she needed a study partner, and she could only imagine Stacey trying to study with Claudia; the left and right sides of the brain clashing. 

They drink tea and eat citrus fruits, and Stacey aligns everything on their study table to exact right angles, and Shannon develops a study reference guide with footnotes and endnotes. Stacey smiles and smells a little like oranges and Shannon wonders, for a moment, if this is love. 

And Stacey is bisexual, she knows, and when they leave the library on a wintry Sunday afternoon, scarves blowing in the breeze and tangling together, black wool and gray like a pattern, like it’s supposed to happen, Shannon places a gloved hand on Stacey’s chic trench coat and says _wait_ , and Stacey waits.

Shannon ducks them under a tree, behind a veil of leaves tinged with brown, and she kisses Stacey like she’s always wanted: hands against Stacey’s smooth, soft cheeks, a thumb stroking her jawline, a gentle nip of teeth at Stacey’s lower lip. When they part breath fogs between them; a beat catches on Shannon’s heart and thuds like a skipping record. 

Stacey’s smile is like the unexpected reveal of moonlight on a cloudy night: pleasing and desperately sought. Shannon hears the words like they’re spoken in stereo: _I thought you’d never get around to it._

 

_ii. midterm_

They date all through winter and call it quits before all the other Stoneybrook couples; they reject that idea of ‘one last summer’, that timelessness between high school and college when all other couples seek solace in each other. They don’t see each other often, and they have too much to do in preparation.

Shannon hears through the grapevine that Stacey is seeing someone; a guy named Charlie. _Not Thomas_ , she is assured, and Shannon doesn’t doubt it. If it were a Thomas, she’d know; she lives right nearby, after all. She’s pleased that Stacey isn’t alone, wonders if this Charlie knows how to kiss under her chin and down to the planes of _neck_. But then there is Dawn and climaxes backed by gasping breaths and light wrist-ringed bruises, and she forgets to wonder.

All things end amicably when you are Shannon Kilbourne, and just as she’d had too much to do to see Stacey, she had far too much to compete with Dawn; she was Princeton-bound and single-minded. Books needed to be bought, routes mapped in advance, extracurricular activities examined. 

She notices, of course she notices, that Stacey is at Princeton, too. And she means to call her, stop her on their weaving way between classes, but there are classes to think of, roommates and friends to be with. They smile and catch each other’s eyes, friendly and warm and nothing resembling tense, and that’s where the interaction stays. 

Shannon’s fine with that until midterms approach. This time, she’s the one to reach out with personal email addresses and proposed dates and times for the next three weeks (open to negotiation given that Stacey’s exam dates and class times weren’t Shannon’s knowledge), and within the hour Stacey has replied. 

There are new libraries to conquer.

_iii. respite_

They pass with honors – of course they do – and now Stacey has more finesse with footnotes than Shannon; now Stacey drinks green tea instead of chamomile, and she says things like _your hair is longer_ when Shannon’s head bends over a textbook, but these are only surface changes. They are still Shannon and Stacey; they still fold together and fit just as they’re supposed to – Shannon knows this. 

Shannon knows this because there’s a holiday weekend and she is outside packing two nearly folded suitcases and one garment bag into her car that still, after three years, smells new: fresh and spiced with vanilla. A beret is half-perched on her head, half sliding off. She reaches to secure a suitcase, the beret falls – 

And is caught neatly with a laugh, a laugh interspersed with _this really doesn’t match your outfit_ , and Shannon turns and there Stacey is; glowing and fabulous in black, silver rings dotting her finger, freshly manicured nude, tapping her lower lip as though assessing Shannon’s ensemble. 

There’s a moment where several things could happen. Shannon could speak, or Stacey could. She could talk; she could offer Stacey a ride home, if she’s going. Suggest a break for something to eat, a talk. She could ask about the exams. And she opens her mouth without deciding quite what to say in their gently appraising silence, and that’s when Stacey steps forward, runs her hands down Shannon’s arms to take her hands, clasp them loosely. 

Shannon is silent, and Stacey’s kiss is like that winter and the one fast approaching, bracing and nostalgic and bittersweet, and the taste and hint of tongue on soft, wet lower lip shocks her into remembrance, into action, into thinking _is this love_ and knowing the answer is yes.

Even if she won’t say it until finals.

*  
 _fin_


End file.
